


Tales of the Immortals

by yixuan



Series: This is not a love song [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bard dealing with a major heartbreak, M/M, Major Character Injury, Sigrid doing all the work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3259289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yixuan/pseuds/yixuan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard of Laketown had always thought the Elves rather strange creatures. Mysterious and intriguing and beautiful beyond measure, but strange nevertheless. He had grown up with stories about them, about the fair folk in the woods; he had been warned not to venture too far, for they would sometimes catch little children and trick them into wandering into their realm. Sometimes he would be scared and unable to sleep for the fear of one of the Elven people coming into his chamber at night to capture him and take him away. For when you entered their halls, people said, you would never leave them again. </p><p>Bard living his own fairytale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tales of the Immortals

**Author's Note:**

> Basically the same story, different POV. Even though this can be read as a separate story, I highly suggest you go and read the first part first. 
> 
> Again, unbetaed and crappy English. I will keep doing this until I find a beta reader :)

Bard of Laketown had always thought the Elves rather strange creatures. Mysterious and intriguing and beautiful beyond measure, but strange nevertheless. He had grown up with stories about them, about the fair folk in the woods; he had been warned not to venture too far, for they would sometimes catch little children and trick them into wandering into their realm. Sometimes he would be scared and unable to sleep for the fear of one of the Elven people coming into his chamber at night to capture him and take him away. For when you entered their halls, people said, you would never leave them again.

He had grown into a young and adventurous man and sometimes he had made some daring excursions far beyond the trees with his friends; they had been strolling around with thundering hearts, always expecting some of the Elven people suddenly darting out from behind a bush with an arrow aiming at them. There had never been a single one, though. It had been quiet and peaceful in the woods, but always there had been this tingling sensation at the back of their necks, like something was watching them.

However, it wasn’t before he had starting working as a bargeman to feed his family, until he finally saw a real Elf. He had always known about the wine trade between Laketown and the Greenwood that was crucial for the town, and how always the barrels had to be taken there and the Elves never came to collect them. On this day, Bard had been charged to ship a whole boat of full barrels to the Elven realm in the Greenwood, and, remembering his youthful dream of encountering one of the otherworldly creatures, he felt the same thundering of his heart like back then.

They were nothing like he had imagined them, but much more. He had known about their pointy ears and fair complexion, about them being tall and handsome and immortal, but he hadn’t been prepared for this—and he couldn’t find another word for it— _magic_ that pulled him in from the first second. There werea male and a female elf who took the barrels from him, returned his greetings and gave him the promised payment without even the hint of a smile. It felt intimidating and exciting at the same time, and even though the situation was uncomfortable, he never wanted to leave. The soft and alluring light they were radiating made him wary until he was almost unable to move and forever wanted to stay within the reach of their enticing and menacing power.

Still, he forced himself to get back onto his boat and after he had left it felt like waking up from a dream. After that, he had always avoided going to the Elven realm if he could, always fearing that one day he would give in to this incredible yearning that befell him whenever he went near one of these creatures. However, over the years he felt he was slowly growing accustomed to it. It became easier to be in their presence and, after some time, he realized that all their allure was just an illusion, a spell that could easily just be broken. It was part of their magic and as he began to see through it, they didn’t hold the same power about him anymore. They never became less mysterious, still. He never felt he could understand them, let alone befriend one of them. They stayed as far away as the mighty Greenwood, a dark and powerful tale somewhere beyond his real life.

He never told his children the same tales that had been told to him; he didn’t want them to grow up in fear and under the same shadow as he had. Still, they picked them up elsewhere. One night, he heard Sigrid’s little feet tapping on the wooden floor as she approached her parent’s bed; when she slipped under the blanket, her face was wet with tears.

“Have you had a bad dream, darling?” his wife asked while cradling her in her arms.

“They say there is a King in the woods”, she whispered, terrified. “He has long, white hair and he takes little girls to his halls to dance for him… and when they don’t pay attention he cuts out their heart and eats it. He was coming for me in my dream, Mummy.”

Bard had heard equal stories about Thranduil, the Elvenking, as a child. But he stroke Sigrid’s hair and told her about his visits to the Woodland realm and how there was nothing strange or dangerous about the people living there. His daughter fell asleep while her sobbing ceased. Still, Bard pondered if maybe their danger didn’t consist in them taking little girls and eating their hearts, but something else entirely.

…

In all those years, he had never seen their king. However, when he first laid eyes upon Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, he immediately realized who he was. There was no mistaking him for anybody else, majestic and beautiful on his beast, so beautiful it was terrifying. Even though he had seen many Elves at that point, there had never been one so fair, so radiant, so powerful and so terrible at the same time. In another situation, he would have paused to marvel at such an incredible being, but there were mouths to feed and wounded people to care for. The Elves had brought all they needed and more. He had never thought them a generous people; there had never been more than the pragmatic exchange of goods and money. Why this sudden change? Why this sudden interest in the fate of simple Men, something they otherwise never cared for?

“You saved us! I do not know how to thank you”, he exclaimed, relief washing through him like the warmth of a bright spring day.

The Elf on his elk kept his flawless face completely straight. His eyes were bright blue and piercing.

“You’re gratitude is misplaced. I did not come on your behalf. I came to reclaim something of mine.”

He should have known. There was no kindness, no sympathy in the Elves. It was always a trade; they only gave when they got something back. However, he couldn’t bring himself to be angry, for they had relieved him of his greatest worries. His people would live, thanks to Thranduil’s cunning.

He watched the dazzling creature looming high above him and felt like back then, when he had taken wine to the Greenwood and seen the first Elves of his life. It was the same otherworldly magic that pulled him in, and this time, he couldn’t pull free. There was nothing illusory about the power the Elf held over him, it was real and it was there. Their eyes locked and he saw something there that made him want to run and linger forever at the same time. While their people were unloading the carriages, Bard of Laketown and Thranduil, the Elvenking, danced their first dance of fateful desire and Bard knew in an instant that his life had changed forever.

…

There was no going back after that. When Thranduil summoned him to his tent, he obliged without hesitation. How could he refuse such divine a creature? He couldn’t loosen the grip of the fascination the Elf held over him and he readily came to him in the middle of the night before the battle.

“Your name is Bard, I’ve heard”, the king said while pouring him a cup of wine and placing it in his hand. His gaze burned, almost.

Bard had never seen hair as fine and smooth as the Elf’s, and he longed to bury his hands in the long, silky strands. It was a contrast to the sharp and merciless eyes that lingered on him, only ever leaving for seconds.

“Bard the bargeman, indeed.”

“There are some who call you king already.”

“An honor, I’m afraid, I don’t deserve.”

“When I look at you, I see a leader, Bard the _bargeman._ ” Thranduil said while pacing around him like a wolf around his prey. “And I have no doubt many of your people feel the same.”

He paused and continued to look at Bard with this intense gaze that made him uneasy.

“You make them feel like you care about them.”

“I _do_ care about them, my Lord.”

There was a low laugh of amusement from the Elvenking who approached him now and suddenly stood close before him, too close. Bard’s breath caught in his throat, and he was suddenly surrounded by the sweet scent of flowers after a spring rain, of fresh leaves opening under the sun, of melting winter snow. He inhaled deeply, taking in the sensation and couldn’t help but close his eyes. It was only seconds until he felt the Elvenking’s lips claiming his with a power he had thought possible before.

He did not even hesitate to give himself to Thranduil completely; he let him do things he had never let anyone do to him before. His body, his mind, slipped entirely out of his control and he didn’t want it any other way. Maybe that was what he regretted most, afterwards. While Thranduil continued to touch every part of his hungry body, however, his only thought was how he wanted _more, more, please, more,_ and how he never wanted this to end.

There was some tenderness after the wild and primal act of their joining. They were lying together breathlessly, and Thranduil’s fingers were always on his face, in his hair, on his body.

“They say the Elves steal the children of Men,” Bard heard himself whispering, still not fully comprehending what had just happened to him. “They say they carry them to their halls in the Woodland realm and devour their hearts. Is there some truth to it, my Lord Thranduil?”

Thranduil looked at him, a faint trace of amusement curling the corners of his mouth.

“Who can tell… I’ve never held a human heart in my hands, Bard of Laketown, but who knows, I might end up devouring yours.”

…

He soon discovered that he didn’t hold the same fascination over the King of the Woodland realm as he held over him. After they had ridden to battle together, after he had been crowned King of Dale and the reconstruction of the city had begun, the Elvenking continued to visit him in his modest dwellings, and however passionate and heated their encounters might be, he always seemed eager to leave afterwards. Sometimes he got up and dressed in a hurry when their skin had barely cooled down, the linen still damp from their sweat.

“Farewell, my sweet king,” he would say and be gone like one of the mystery creatures Bard had thought the Elves during his childhood, leaving him behind, always with a painful knot in his stomach. He knew he should expect nothing from this elusive being, for no one knew the hearts of the Elves; if they even possessed one. However, he couldn’t seem to be able to shrug off this insatiable yearning that was never fully satisfied by their bodily pleasures. There was always this need for more, and he kept wondering if it was due to some Elven magic of the kind that he had experiences during his first meeting with the Elves as a young bargeman, only _stronger,_ more powerful, some kind of spell that only an Elven king could cast.

But always he left, and fast.

And always, he came back.

Each time, Bard feared that it would be the last, and tried to come to terms with it. He concentrated on his work, on rebuilding the city, on being a good king and a good father. There was much to do and he barely had an idle minute; always there were his people coming and asking him for help and assistance. When he sunk onto his bed at night, though, the loneliness and longing would return and he would touch his own flesh, remembering the Elvenking’s fingers on his skin. In his dreams, there was often a shadow and the glimpse of long, silky, almost white hair, disappearing behind the trees.

_They say there is a King in the woods. He was coming for me in my dream._

Sometimes, he woke up, sobbing like a child.

…

There was this one day, when he finally asked.

Thranduil had come upon his orders; Bard had asked him to Dale and he had followed. His kisses had been hot as usually, his fingers swift and skilled, and Bard had trembled under his terrible magic. When he had felt the Elvenking inside of him, finally, after all the teasing, he had been unable to hold back his tears. Thranduil had noticed; he was always attentive, always concerned with Bard’s needs, and he had tenderly wiped them away with his thumb.

“What is it, Lord Bard?”

His voice had been thick with arousal, but still, he had paused, his eyes searching Bard’s face for any sign of discomfort.

“It is nothing. Continue with what you’re doing or I shall die; I shall surely die.”

Thranduil’s smile had been faint, but he had done as told and after the explosion had washed away all nagging thoughts and doubts, Bard had gone limp in the Elf’s arms.

There was the soft sound of rain from outside and Thranduil’s pale body seemed to glow in the dark, and Bard couldn’t stop touching it, running his fingers across his fair and almost hairless skin. The Elvenking was returning his caresses, stroking his dark and scarred body with long and tender fingers.

“My king” Thranduil whispered after a long silence, his lips against Bard’s throat. “The nights in the Greenwood were getting lonely and cold. How fortunate diplomacy called me here.”

Indeed, Bard had ordered him to Dale on some pretense, had claimed to have plans of discussing their wine trade in the future or something of the kind that could mean anything. They had both known its true meaning, at least.

Bard’s look got serious and his finger caressed the ageless skin on Thranduil’s cheeks.

“You know you don’t need an excuse to come here, my lord Thranduil. You’re welcome any time.”

“I come here whenever I have time to spare.”

“Which is usually only when I ask you to.”

It was painful, but it was the truth, and he had to know. He was aware that he was not in the position to expect or demand anything of the Elvenking, but he wanted to know how he saw him, what went through his head when he claimed his body, his imperfect, human body that kept aging.

“A king has his duties, as you should know. We might have defeated evil for now, but it is still lurking. The Greenwood is infested with something, the spiders crawling around and other, bodiless things of evil that we have to keep at bay. My kingdom needs me. Whenever you send for me, I follow your call. Isn’t that enough for you?”

The pain was even worse than he had expected. He forced himself not to close his eyes and turn away, but to return Thranduil’s gaze.

“Maybe sometimes I wish for you to come to me on your own accord,” he whispered; his voice too pleading and shakier than he had wished it to be.

“What would you have us do, my Lord Bard? Tell the world that we share a bed? Wed me like a maid? We both know what we are, what is expected of us. We are fortunate enough to have this. It has to be enough.”

“You said that you get lonely sometimes.”

He knew his was pleading and burying his pride. There wasn’t much he could give to Thranduil, King of the Elves, apart from a short and mortal life, a withering body and his weak, tired heart. He had loved and lost once and the pain of his wife’s death was still flowing through his veins, every single day. Could it be love he felt for the Elvenking, he wondered. Was there love enough to love again, like he had as a young man, only this time for a great and powerful king, beautiful and immortal?

Such love, he felt, would surely destroy him.

“Being a king means to be lonely,” Thranduil answered calmly. “You can take a wife, father more children, secure your line. You are still young and proud, and many a maid would die to wed you. I know I might seem alluring to you, but you cannot spend your life, short as it might be, chasing a dream from the woods and yearning for what will never be. I enjoy your company, Bard, and what you give to me. But there are things we cannot control. We are too different. You are a man and you’re living your life with passion and commitment. I, however, am of Elven blood, and I have a different burden to bear. We are like water and oil, like fire and ice, like night and day. We can share a space but we will never truly be one.”

Everything blurred after that. Bard heard everything that Thranduil said afterwards, but it felt like something had been stuffed into his ears. He heard himself giving an answer, but it was like a faraway voice somewhere in the distance. Somehow he gathered that Thranduil would leave early the next day, as he always did.

There was no sleep for him after that. He told himself that he had always _known,_ that it had been _obvious_ that the Elvenking held no love for him. He had, in fact, but he had underestimated what had grown inside of himself. This need, this yearning, which had begun like a faint tugging on his insides, like a constant pull on his heart, had become a painful, ever-present torture, like something trying to rip his heart out. Nothing could soothe it but the Elvenking’s touch and his burning kisses and soft whispers against his ears in the heat of passion.

The night drifted past him and when dawn came, he felt the figure next to him getting up and only seconds later, it seemed, he had vanished, leaving Bard cold and desperate on a cool and damp autumn morning.

…

He got up, dressed carelessly in his linen shirt and a pair of trousers to go into the living room and pour himself a cup of wine. He had taken to drinking alcohol at all hours of the day of lately, finding some small comfort in the haziness it caused. It made him less aware of the things that were going on around him, and, even more important, inside of him. Sitting down on a chair, he watched the sun rise over the distant hills.

He didn’t move until he heard the sound of an opening door.

“Da. Not again!”

It was Sigrid, still in her sleeping clothes and a blanket wrapped around her. She had grown into a beautiful young woman, but sometimes there was something too mature about her, like she had seen sorrows that one so young never should.

Bard realized that this was about the cup in his hand, for Sigrid tore it from him and splashed the content onto the ground in a frenzy of anger.

“What is this about, dear?” he still asked while trying to stay calm, already slurring his words.

Her eyes were looming over him, angry and sad.

“You do that all the time, Da. You drink wine all the time. Don’t you realize it’s not good for you?”

“Everybody drinks wine, dear.”

“Not with this frequency. I know why you do it. You do it because you’re not happy. You’re trying to drown your sadness, but you’re drowning everything else away as well.”

She stared at him for a moment, then, biting her lips, she asked: “Is it because of the Elvenking?”

He starred at her, startled. She was too clever for her own good, he had always known that, but it shocked him that she could see through him so easily.

“Why would you think such a thing, Sigrid?”

She laughed shortly and joylessly, dropping down onto a chair next to him.

“Do you think me so naïve, father? I know he comes to see you. I know he sleeps in your chambers and I’m grown up, I know what you do. I know of the spell that Elves can cast over Men, I have felt it myself, many times. But I know these spells can be broken, they can.”

Bard felt desperate, he wanted to lie, to keep his dignity, at least before his own daughter who had so long looked up to him. But suddenly something welled up inside of him and a sob worked its way up through his throat. He couldn’t bear to meet her eyes anymore.

“Not this one. It is more powerful than anything I have felt before.”

“Da!” she cried, desperate. “You have to. You have to break it. You’re not alone; there are people who care about you. Look at me, Da.”

He forced himself to turn his head even though that would make her see the tears in his eyes. To his surprise, there was no contempt there, only desperation.

“I feared the Elves when I was a child,” she whispered. “I kept dreaming of tall, mysterious creatures with long hair, coming to take me away. I heard all these tales and songs of them stealing little children. Now I’ve grown up and for years I’ve been trying to convince myself that there’s nothing harmful about them. I’ve met kind ones, like Tauriel, who would have given her life to protect us. They fought at our side in the battle; they’ve given us food and supplies when we needed them most. But still, I am scared. I am scared that they are going to take my father away. Thranduil comes and goes, and every time, it seems, he takes away pieces of you until there is nothing left.”

Bard shook his head, but couldn’t deny what she had said. He marveled at how she was able to see perfectly through him, to find words for all of this, all of this _mess._ Part of him wanted to melt into her arms, to throw all of his sorrows at her feet, but he was her father, he had to be strong. Not only this, he was a king. How was he supposed to lead his people when he couldn’t even compose himself?

“What do you want me to do?” he asked instead. It was a short question, his voice not even shaking.

“What I want you to do? Are you serious, Da? I want you to _live._ You are but a shadow of what you used to be. There are people who look up to you, people who love you. You’re a leader, you’re a king and you’re a father. We need you. _I_ need you. I want you to become the person you were before all of this happened. My bright and bold and loving father. More than that, you’re a king now. You have to rule.”

“We cannot go back to what we were. What has happened, happened. It is too late.”

“We can’t go back, but we can move forward. I need you to stand up, to shake of this magic that has been cast upon you and be who you were meant to be. Maybe it is hell what you are going through, but this is hell, too-- slowly seeing your father vanish because of a shadow from the woods. Come back to us. Come back.”

His eyes were veiled by tears now when he realized how right she was. No pain was worth forsaking those who loved and needed him. Not even when his wife died had he neglected them like this.

Slowly, he took her hand, pressing it gently. He knew she was right, and he knew he had to try.

“I will do what I can, Sigrid.”

She smiled and it seemed genuine. “And I know you will succeed, Da. You always do.”

…

Life came back to him, slowly.

Sigrid was there, and the pride in her eyes gave him strength every day. He found simple joys in everyday procedures, which began to pierce the sadness that had seemed to choke him. There was so much to do, so many people to look after, and he began to see just how important it was for him to be there for them. They relied on him, he was their king. He forced himself to smile, to be helpful, reliable, diligent and hard-working when they needed him to. At night in his bed he tried not to long for the lithe and strong body next to him and sometimes, he even succeeded.

He forced himself to give up on wine completely. There was another advantage to it, for the taste of wine always reminded him of what he and Thranduil had shared, of the first night before the battle, the night of his coronation and many nights after that. Always, there had been wine, the sweet taste of it constantly on their tongues when they kissed. Giving up on it meant giving up on some part of his memory of these nights, and I did him well.

Also, it cleared his head. He came to realize that his life was so much more than just his being with the Elvenking, however addictive and precious these hours might have been. However his relationship with Tranduil would continue, he would live.

For there was so much more to live for.

It was Sigrid who had made that clear to him and he knew he would be forever grateful for his clever daughter.

Then, one day not long after, a letter from the King of Mirkwood arrived.

…

…

“He asks you to come to him?”

He could see the sorrow in his daughter’s eyes and cursed himself for making her, this young woman with so much on her mind, his only confidante.

“He invited me to attend a banquet in his halls.”

“And what will your answer be?”

Bard couldn’t stop his fingers tapping nervously on the wooden table.

“I was hoping for you to tell me.”

His daughter raised her eyebrows slightly.

“Me? Please, Dad. Is this my decision to make?”

“I thought you might stop me if I agreed.”

She shook her pretty head and looked at her feet.

“I won’t stop you. You have to do what you think is right. And if your heart tells you to go, maybe you should. But please… promise me that you will come back. Don’t make my nightmares come true.”

He promised it to her, pressing her tightly to him.

Then he went.

…

There was the banquet, Thranduils halls, beautiful and timeless. For the first time, Bard could see what kind of being the King of Mirkwood truly was: Older than the trees, ancient and enigmatic. Only then did he realize that the Elven beauty also came from pain, from the pain of never fading, never ceasing to exist while everything around them did. How agonizing it had to be to always linger, to see things being born and then die away, time running through their hands like sand. Seeing the world altering beyond recognition within the blink of an eye, seeing things vanish that they had loved.

Maybe, he thought when he laid eyes upon Thranduil’s flawless face again, this was what he was in the Elvenking’s eyes: Part of this fading, fleeting word that he couldn’t bind his heart to.

When Thranduil called him to his chambers, he couldn’t refuse, but he went with a thundering heart. He had promised himself not to continue the way they had, at least he had to try. But when Thranduil spoke to him and he finally _opened up_ , all his resolve shattered.

“You ask for all of this when all _I_ ask for is time. Can you understand the dimension of the life of an Elf? I will try to explain it to you. My wife died eight hundred years past. I met you just before the Battle of the Five Armies mere two years ago. In the life of a Man, it would have been only about one year since I buried my beloved and we would know each other for mere minutes. I’ve grown very fond of you, my dear bowman; however, there is a boundary I’m not willing to cross. You can only be part of my world for the blink of an eye, if we are fortunate. Do you expect me to sacrifice everything for such a short moment? You will one day be gone, but I’ll still be here to pick up the pieces.”

There it was, spoken words for what he had felt as soon as he had entered King Thranduil’s realm. And afterwards, when he was pushed onto the bed and straddled by the Elvenking’s long and strong legs, he felt it, suddenly. That, no matter what he said, there was more than just their coupling. When he pushed into the tight heat, a wild and blazing fire rushing through his body, he was almost drowned by the feeling of affection and tender care in the Elf’s touch. What Thranduil was giving to him was more than he had given to any Man before. He would never say it, never tell him. But it was there, unmistakably.

Bard laid a hand on the Elf’s heart and felt the thundering beat. Their eyes met, Thranduil looking down on him, their bodies still sweetly joined. There were no words for what Bard saw there, not even the Elvenking would find them.

 _I am afraid to lose you,_ he read.

But “You truly have become a king, Bard of Dale,” was all Thranduil said when he leant down to kiss him.

…

His heart wasn’t exactly light after his stay in Mirkwood, but he felt like a great burden had been lifted from him. He cherished each of Thranduil’s following visits, considering them a gift. The Elvenking always came back, and now Bard knew that he always would. Every time they were together, it was beautiful, it was fulfilling, and even though they never spoke of it, it was something constant, something that would always be. It saddened Bard every time when Thranduil left him, but the pain was bearable, for he knew he wouldn’t be gone for long.

One day, the sun had just risen and filled their living room with a soft and warm light. Thranduil had just left, parting from Bard with a kiss.

“I am loathe to leave you,” he had whispered, his lips still lingering on Bard’s. “I shall be back before summer solstice.”

That would be two weeks from now and Bard found himself humming cheerfully as he watched the Elf mounting his elk from the window, calling some orders to the guards he had placed on either side of the door. They each climbed their horses and together they left, the sound of hooves on the paved road slowly fading.

Only then Bard turned to discover he was not alone.

“Good morning, Dad.”

Sigrid looked sleepy but she had a bright smile on her face. Bard returned it.

“I’m sorry, did we wake you up?”

She silently shook her head and sat down at the table.

“I have a very light sleep. Bain and Tilda would sleep through an earthquake; they wouldn’t even budge if a horde of orcs invaded the city. I’m the only one, it seems, who is woken from sleep by the softest of movements.”

Bard took her hand, still smiling.

“Just like your mother.”

His daughter paused, scrutinizing him. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Is that so wrong?”

She laughed. “Oh Dad, of course it is not. It gladdens my heart, it really does. When you left for Mirkwood some time ago, I was truly afraid. But you returned, and since then… it is different. All is different.”

He nodded slowly.

“I… I realized something there. It is hard to describe… but it made me see things differently.”

She pressed his hand. “You don’t have to. He… he really seems to like you, in some fashion. He keeps coming back. And always he’s in a hurry when he comes. One can hear the thundering of his elk’s hooves from miles away.”

“To _like_ me…” Bard couldn’t help but chuckle. “I can’t believe I’m having this kind of conversation with my daughter.”

They both laughed silently and relieved. Then Bard got serious again.

“There is something else I’d like to talk to you about, my dear. I’ve had an offer of marriage for you.”

Suddenly, her eyes started to shine and he realized that there had been something like that for some time. What had he not seen, he wondered; what had happened during the time he had only worried about himself?

“I can’t claim I’m all too surprised. It’s the young merchant, isn’t it? Gybryn, if I recall correctly?”

He didn’t miss the way she blushed.

“And what do you say? He is tall, handsome, and people speak highly of him. However, this decision is yours to make. I won’t sell off my eldest daughter like some piece of cattle.”

She laughed again and Bard could see she was genuinely happy.

“You can sell me, Da. Just make sure you get a decent price. I consent.”

And then, pressing his hand, she added: “And invite the Elvenking for the wedding.”

…

The years went by and Dale continued to prosper. Bard had never expected to be a good king, but somehow he turned out to be just that. His people were loyal and hard-working; the city flourished without him having to do much. He was proud and content, but what brightened his heart more than anything was his family. When Sigrid gave birth to her first daughter, he held a celebration for the whole city of Dale, also inviting the Elves of Mirkwood and the Dwarves of Erebor. He would never forget the way Thranduil held his hand under the table.

As joyful as he felt, he also felt something else. He was getting _old._ It was a slow process, but still continuously proceeding. He could see it in the mirror, the increasing number of gray strands, the crinkles around his eyes spreading every year. Now, he was a grandfather. Even the sound of it was shocking. And he saw it, in the Elvenking’s eyes.

Thranduil still looked young and enticing as ever, ageless and unmarred by the years.

Bard noticed himself getting more quiet, and maybe a little more solitary. He took to wandering through the woods, alone, pondering on life and death and all that was in between. Sometimes his thoughts wandered to the Elvenking and how he had become a steady part of his life, never getting tired of him despite his ageing body.

It was one of these days when he stumbled over a piece of wood that he had not seen. He heard a loud crack before he even felt the pain. It took one look to his leg, bent at an odd angle, to tell it was broken, and when he tried to move he realized with a sharp cry of pain that the bone was sticking out.

How he got on his horse he couldn’t tell, but he managed to get back to Dale under the worst pain he had ever felt.

“Da!” cried Tilda when she saw him. “What happened to you?”

“Get a healer,” he forced out through gritted teeth.

With the aid of some men they managed to get him into bed. The healer came and pushed the bone back in its place; Bard was screaming in agony. Tilda held his hand and never let it go; even afterwards, when the healer washed off the blood and started stitching the wound. He poured strong liquor over it to clean it, then wiped his hands and his sweaty forehead.

“It should heal now,” he sighed. “Come for me soon, I will see to the wound. It will take weeks to heal. He needs to rest now.”

Bard was pale, his breathing shallow. Once he had passed out during the procedure, now he was back to consciousness. Tilda was still holding his hand.

“Rest now. The worst is over, Da.”

It was far from over, though. The next day, the wound looked even worse and was throbbing painfully.

“It looks like it has festered,” the healer said, frowning, when he examined it. “I will clean it, but I don’t know if it will help. You must all pray now.”

The pain didn’t stop; instead, it got worse and worse. By the next morning, Bard couldn’t see clear anymore, everything was becoming hazy around him, his vision blurring. The throbbing felt like a huge drum, thundering inside of his body. He noticed, like from far away, how from time to time someone poured cool water down his dry throat, but he could not tell who it was.

The fever began to consume him. He saw faces around him and heard voices, like the chirping of birds. But the one face he was looking for wasn’t there, an ageless, angelic face, framed by a white mass of straight hair.

“Where is he?” he whispered at some point; he was becoming desperate for he felt there wasn’t much time left. His vision cleared slightly for a short moment and he saw Sigrid’s face hovering over his.

“Who, Da?”

He blinked; he wanted to keep the image, his daughter, his beautiful one.

“You know,” he whispered, his voice coarse.

“He is not here, Da.”

“Why not?”

There was something tearing at him, urging him away. He didn’t want to, he didn’t want to leave. There was someone he needed to see first.

“Please, Sigrid, I need to see him.”

“I will send for him,” she whispered. “Just don’t give in, Da. Don’t go.”

A great calmness settled upon him. His love would come. All he could do was wait.

…

“I did not think we would meet again, my love.”

He blinked; once, twice. She was still there, and it was unmistakably her. Her long, brown hair was curling softly down her back, sparkling in some kind of unearthly light. Bard recognized her by her eyes, though; her big, gentle eyes with that special twinkle in them. She was sitting on something, like she was resting, her hands in her lap.

He wanted to run to her, take her into his arms. It had been so long since she had left him, he had almost forgotten how beautiful she was, how breathtaking.

“My dear, my lovely one,” he breathed. “I have missed you so much.”

She smiled, her face brightening up like the sun itself.

“As I have missed you, my love. But you have done so well. I didn’t want to leave you ever, but illness took me. Still, you cared for our children so perfectly. You were strong, you looked after them, you loved them enough for both of us. And then, you shot the dragon. Could there ever be a greater deed? You are a hero, my Bard.”

His feet wouldn’t move. How he longed to embrace her, finally, after all this time! But something was pulling him back.

“And now you’re leading the city,” she continued. “You’re a king. Who would have thought.”

There was nothing mocking in her voice, she was being honest.

“I am glad that you’ve found another love, Bard. So glad.”

He had stopped trying to move, it was impossible. The pull to the other side was too strong. Though he never wanted to leave her again, her words startled him. How could she know?

“I never meant to betray you.”

“And you never have.”

She got up from her seat and stood for a while, her eyes always on him.

“You’re not meant to be here. Not yet.”

“I want to be with you.”

“You have to go back. To them, to our children. And to him.”

Her eyes were sad, but there was also peace in them. She started turning around, her dark dress swirling around her. Again, he tried to move, but it didn’t work this time either.

“Don’t go!” he shouted, which made her pause and look at him again.

“We will meet again, my love,” she said, with only a trace of sadness in her voice. “Until then, go back. Live. Love. They need you. _He_ needs you.”

Then, as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone again. And Bard realized what had been pulling him back—a voice, soft whispers in a foreign tongue.

_Come back to me. Don’t leave me. Come back._

He knew the voice. It was deep and majestic, usually commanding, but pleading now. And he knew the face that belonged to the voice and he could see it before him now. His heart was flooded with a deep and warm feeling, so powerful, so pure, that he deliberately let go and let himself be pulled back into the world of pain.

His eyes flew open.

The sensations rushed back into him and he gasped with pain as he tried to hoist himself up. Gentle hands held him and pressed him back down.

“Do rest now, my king. You are very weak.”

Bard’s head was throbbing with pain so intense that he almost couldn’t force his eyes open. The face he had just seen in his mind was there, right in front of his eyes, as flawless and beautiful as ever. Deep sorrow seemed to be carved into it, the lips were bitten bloody.

“Thranduil,” Bard whispered. “You came.”

Only then did he notice the Elf was stroking his hand.

“Of course. Your daughter sent for me. I came as fast as I could, and I took my healer with me who brought you back to the light.”

Bard closed his eyes again and a deep serenity settled over him. He felt the reassuring touch on his hands and soft lips caressing his.

“I am delighted to have you back, Bard. I was so afraid of losing you,” murmured the Elvenking quietly.

“It was you who brought me back,” Bard whispered. He couldn’t hold back his words; they started spilling out of him like water from a well. “I was so ready to leave. She was there and I wanted to follow her. But then I heard your voice and I couldn’t leave you. I don’t want to ever leave you.”

He felt wetness on his cheeks and didn’t know if the tears were his or Thranduil’s. The Elvenking kissed his mouth again, then his forehead, his tired eyes, his whole face.

“Then don’t, bargeman. Keep coming back, just as I do.”

…

It was some weeks later when they first made love again, this time in Thranduil’s lavish bedroom. The king had invited him to his realm for Mereth Nuin Giliath, the Elven Feast of Starlight, and he had attended. Bard’s leg still hurt at times; Thranduil had been gentle and slow; he had pinned Bard’s hands over his head to keep them from moving while he lowered himself onto him.

The sensation had been wonderful and overwhelming and Bard had forced himself not to cry at the sweetness of it.

Afterwards, they were lying on the soft linen, intimately embraced. Bard could feel Thranduil’s quiet breathing against his skin.

“What are you thinking, my Lord?” Bard finally asked after some moments of serene silence.

To his surprise the Elvenking chuckled and slowly raised his head to kiss him briefly on the lips.

“Do people in Dale still have nightmares of Elves taking their children away? Do they still fear us, taking their hearts and devouring them?”

Bard smiled, he had all but forgotten these old tales and songs and was surprised Thranduil still remembered.

“It is not that common anymore. Sometimes, in the taverns, people still sing of these things. But I don’t think it keeps little children from sleeping. Elves are too common in the streets of Dale, nobody fears them these days.”

Thranduil nodded slightly. “Good. I mean to keep it that way. I want to cherish the friendship between our races. It is the mirror of the love and respect the two of us hold for each other.”

He must have seen the astonishment in Bard’s face, for he continued: “What? You didn’t expect me to say it out loud?” His body trembled lightly with laughter. “I wasn’t expecting it myself. But here it is. I love you, King Bard of Dale. I have for a long time. I wonder why I have hesitated for so long. I feel so light now that I have said it…”

He was silenced by a kiss and a gentle hand, tenderly tugging the silver strands of hair behind his ears.

“There are other tales you could tell, other songs you could sing,” he whispered when Bard’s mouth left his.

“For instance?”

“That of Lúthien and Beren, for instance. An immortal Elven maid in forever in love with a mortal Man.”

“I have heard of such tales.”

“Or what about the great King Thranduil and his mortal lover, King Bard of Dale?”

Bard smiled. “That is a legend yet to be written.”


End file.
